Watching Drake Marcos stretch out before his Masked Mayhem 13 match reminds me all over again how much he turns me on. His handsome face. His pouty lower lip. His long lean torso. And those legs. Fuck, those legs. They’re just so pretty and punishingly strong. Trust me, Drake’s long, meaty legs can squeeze the juice right out of an opponent.

I’ve mentioned before my opinion that Drake is an epic underachiever on the mats. He’s been trained by the best. He’s got a short fuse against bigger opponents who try to bully him. It’s magnificent to watch him clench his jaw and shift into overdrive to battle back from a deficit. Drake has this raw, fiercely competitive edge to him that belies his well-earned reputation as a powderpuff jobberboy. Every time I settle in to appreciate a new Drake match, I’m wondering if this will be the breakout moment when finally lives into his potential as a vicious, erotic badass.

So I’m lusting over Drake’s legs and fantasizing about that long-awaited heel turn when Gold Shaft silently steps onto the mat behind Drake. It’s like a horror movie, with me yelling at the screen, “Turn around! He’s right behind you!” Gold Shaft admires the view a few seconds, which makes me love him more than ever (which is saying a lot). Gold Shaft likes what he sees, and Drake doesn’t even realize he’s already pinned between my gaze bearing down on him from the front and Gold Shaft’s gaze locked on from behind. And then just like that, Gold Shaft snaps his right arm across Drake’s throat from behind, pulls him to the mat in a padlocked sleeper, and peers around Drake’s head to soak in the sight of Drake’s handsome face going slack. Holy fuck. The fastest victory in BG East history? Possibly.

Fuck, Gold Shaft is pretty. Sure, the mask exponentiates his erotic allure, but that body?! I don’t quite understand how none of his opponents ever seem to lick his honey dipped muscles from head to toe. I feel like Pavlov’s dog, salivating uncontrollably at the sight of him. When it comes to Drake, part of his attractiveness is how he doesn’t quite seem to recognize how hot he is. But as for Gold Shaft, he knows exactly what a sexy mother fucker he is, and every flex and stretch and angle is dripping with erotic beauty. The way he possesses Drake, slack in his arms, stroking his torso, sliding his hands inside the front of Drake’s briefs and massaging his cock, is entrancing. He feels entitled to lick his opponent’s face and mount him, shockingly slapping Drake to consciousness again.

For his part, Drake suffers like nobody else. The pathos streams off of his twisted, twitching body in waves. I’m sure it’s what keeps him chained to jobberhood, but nobody wrestling today sells his own jeopardy anywhere nearly as compellingly as he does. There’s a bitter panic pulsating off of him when he’s trying to suck air into his lungs with Gold Shaft’s figure-4 choke almost pinching his windpipe closed. Drake’s muscles spasm involuntarily when his opponent throttles his crotch violently. He has no poker face. When he’s getting buried under, every muscle fiber and choking gasp of air communicates clearly that he’s on the edge of terror and genuinely fears for his safety.  Drake goes there in this match and every match, because facing down his own panic and potential humiliation is dizzyingly sexy, and Drake loves erotic wrestling just that much to dance on the precipice of his own horror and degradation.

Perhaps Drake’s jeopardy and terror are what turns Gold Shaft on. Maybe it’s just stroking and humping and tasting his opponent’s sweet body under his control. Whatever it is, mere minutes into the match, he’s working hard to keep a lid on Drake’s bitterness coming to a boil. He cranks hard on a side headlock, smashing Drake’s cheek against his smooth chest. He’s on his knees on the mat, pumping viciously, Drake groaning in pain, and there’s Gold Shaft’s golden shaft stretching excitedly out of the top of his white trunks. We’ve seen his beautiful, erect cock come to bear in past matches, but there’s something so sincere and earnest about the appearance of the head of his cock rising like a periscope. He hasn’t touched himself. He’s just so entirely turned on by wrestling Drake that his cock refuses to be contained. I so fucking love watching wrestlers who are experiencing the same erotic thrill I am.

My take is that this is not a squash. Drake is a tough mother fucker who can give opponent’s twice his size a full dose of hurt, so he gives Gold Shaft a serious run for his money. In fact, there’s a lush, tit-for-tat revenge sleeper just a few minutes after his own shocking undoing out of the gates that momentarily strokes those hopes of mine that Drake may harness all of that sensational wrestling skill and competitive drive to drag an opponent kicking and screaming to the edge of terror that he knows so intimately. But soon enough, Drake starts getting buried under, submitting as much to his own demons as to his opponent.  Gold Shaft knocks him out again and again, possessing Drake’s vulnerable body repeatedly, and then slapping him back to his living hell. It’s not a full on squash, but Drake should definitely be in the running for jobber of the year again.

The standing headscissors submission tops me off magnificently. Drake’s trunks violently wedged up his quivering ass are sensationally sexy. Gold Shaft mounting his unconscious victim from behind, thrusting his shaft grinding victoriously between Drake’s cheeks, is everything right about homoerotic wrestling. Gold Shaft is irrepressible. Drake is desperately struggling to uncork that vicious sadist he’s got bottled up inside. Everyone is turned on, especially me.